


The World in My Eyes

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Athens, Fake Dating, Firenze | Florence, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Paris (City), SO MUCH FLUFF, Stargazing, Starry nights, Summer Romance, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Vacation Together, Watford Eighth Year, Yearning, and more locations!, fraught instagram posts, lots of tropes, romantic locations, so much pining, sunsets and moonrises, tentative hand holding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Non-magical AU. Simon is in his last year at Watford. Things were supposed to be magical this summer, thanks to the fact that he’s won an all-expenses paid, two week holiday to the Continent. He’ll finally get to see Paris, Florence, Athens. It’s the dream holiday of a lifetime.Except it’s supposed to be a romantic getaway for a couple and Simon certainly isn’t part of a couple anymore, now that Agatha has broken up with him.Penny has plans for the summer and the rest of his friends aren’t ideal for this type of trip. It looks like Simon’s dreams are going to be dashed.Except Baz doesn’t seem to have any summer plans of his own and he’s always wanted to go to Athens.A fake dating AU with Simon, Baz and too many romantic locations to count.Playlist linked on the first line of the fic!
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 64
Kudos: 147
Collections: Carry On Big Bang 2020





	1. Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainPawz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainPawz/gifts).



> it was wonderful being paired with the lovely [@captainpawss](https://captainpawss.tumblr.com) for this Big Bang! I am so grateful for the patience and for the absolutely lovely art for chapter two! 
> 
> I am planning on posting this chapter by chapter on a weekly basis but I'm posting two chapters today because the art is for chapter two and it's just SO PERFECT and I love it so much!!

**[The World in My Eyes playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/nbzk6bsf568xtb1ixxtipa5kl/playlist/5y8lCI6MzF6QCG0JXVZcod?si=-HbOXXi7TEy8Kskrgc6x_Q) **

**  
The World in My Eyes**

**  
****Chapter 1-Just Another Day**

**Simon**

I click on the email, fully expecting to find an impersonal form letter informing me that, regretfully, my entry didn’t win. 

Instead I’m so startled by what I’m reading that I have to go back and start at the beginning again because _this can’t be real_. 

It takes me three read-throughs to actually grasp the fact that my entry was selected for the grand prize. 

I’ve won the dream vacation of a lifetime. 

Me. Simon Snow. 

My heart is racing, my face heating up, my skin tingling with the sheer elation running through me. 

_I won._

I wrote something good enough that _they chose me_. 

I scan the email again, simply for the joy of it this time. My hands are shaking. I need to print this out, to hold it in my grasp, to make me believe that it’s real. 

I tap at my laptop keyboard and seconds later the printer whirs to life and deposits the printed confirmation in my hands. 

I read it again. 

And that’s when it hits me. With a rush of cold sweat that drowns my exhilaration instantly. 

Dream vacation for two _._

_For two._

I’m damn well not part of a twosome anymore, not since Agatha broke up with me six weeks ago. 

I’d almost forgotten about this contest. Had assumed someone else had won, seeing how long it had been since I sent in the entry. 

November? December? 

Months ago, at any rate. Long enough to have had it slip my mind—months of mundane school work, the usual bitter bickering with Baz, weekends spent at Penny’s all distracting me. 

And now the recent break-up with Agatha, end of year exams, and my upcoming graduation had taken over my entire brain. 

It had seemed a lark at the time, an unlikely chance to win a two-week holiday on the Continent, all expenses paid. 

Thought it would be a right jolly way for Agatha and I to celebrate graduating from Watford, if I somehow managed to win. 

I’d thrown myself into writing the essay, not telling anyone, not even Penny. I’d poured my heart into the words, trying to convey just how much it would mean to me, to have a chance to do something like this. 

Travel. See places I’d only read about in books, seen in films or on television.

I’m not like everyone else at this school. I’m not posh or from old money. 

I’m an orphan from the care system, who just happens to be more intelligent than I look. 

More driven to fight my way out of that system to make something of myself. 

It’s how I got to Watford, by applying and qualifying for Headmaster Mage’s scholarship, thanks to the actions of the one attentive social worker who noticed something in me and gave me the push I needed. 

It’s how I stay here; I’ve strived to keep my grades up, learned to avoid getting into scraps with Baz anymore, do exactly what’s expected of me, every time. 

I work the summers I’m in care—grounds keeping and janitorial work, odd jobs at shops and businesses near the home. I put aside the money for myself so I don’t have to rely on anyone once I graduate. 

Not that there’s anyone to rely on. 

Other than Penny, that is, but I’m not about to take handouts from my best friend. 

I’ve worked since I was thirteen. I’ve got enough saved now to make ends meet for at least a year, once Penny and I move to London for uni—as long as we share the flat. I’ll find work to make do after that. 

I always do. 

This trip was supposed to be something frivolous and fun. Something I wouldn’t typically allow myself. A way to spend time with Agatha in her world—traveling in style, not worrying about the cost of every little thing like I do. 

I never expected to win. But I wanted to, Christ, did I want to. 

I read over the words again but the thrill has left me. 

I don’t think I’m going to be able to go after all. I don’t have anyone to take with me and that was the whole point of it. The whole point of the give-away, the whole point of my essay. 

It’s a dream vacation for _a couple_. 

That’s what I wrote about. That’s what let me win. Why I wanted it so much. The words I wove about seeing those places—Paris, Florence, Athens—for the first time with someone I love. 

Loved, I suppose I should say. Had I loved Agatha? I don’t even know anymore (probably not, if I’m asking myself the question.) 

I crinkle the paper. It’s damp at the edges where my hands are sweating. Fuck it all. I still want this. It’s a dream come true. 

But not for me. 

It’s not like I can ask Penny to go with me. 

I mean, I didn’t actually include Agatha’s name in my entry, so I assume I could take Penny with me instead. We could fake being a couple, if we had to. We know each other well enough, though it would be right awkward. 

I think we could manage holding hands. Occasionally. Maybe. But that’s it. Full stop.

Well, possibly some hugs too. Penny’s good at hugs. 

But Penny’s going to Chicago for the summer, with her father. She’s filling in as his research assistant and it’s all she’s been talking about for months. 

I don’t think I can tell her about this. Not now. She’d feel bad about it and then I’d feel awful for making her feel bad. I’d never forgive myself if she scuttled her plans for me. I wouldn’t want her to do that. 

Fucking hell. I’ve steeled myself to never having things come easily. I’ve trained myself to expect the worst. And now that something finally goes my way, something I’ve dreamt about finally lands in my lap, a daydream about to become a reality, my shitty luck bollocks it up anyway. 

Story of my life. 

It’s what happened with Watford—I got accepted to the school of my dreams, full scholarship, book stipend, uniform stipend, and all. Courtesy of Headmaster Mage, my benefactor. It got me out of the homes for the better part of the year. It seemed too good to be true. 

It was too good to be true because I got saddled with an absolute wanker of a roommate. 

_Baz._

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Sounds a right tosser from just the name, doesn’t he? 

That’s not the half of it. 

I’d expected someone posh, with a name like that. I’d expected it would take a bit of time to warm up to each other. I’d expected to be a bit overwhelmed and awkward. 

I didn’t expect a grey-eyed boy who sneered at me from the first moment we met, who looked down his aristocratic nose with distaste in his gaze, who mocked me that first night when I cried at the thought that I had finally arrived at a place that might possibly feel like home. 

No, Baz was a right bastard from that first day. It got worse, before it got better. 

Not that it’s much better. We just moved from using our fists to batter each other to using our words. 

And then I think we got tired of even that. 

I suppose it _is_ better this year. We hardly even talk anymore. We’ve perfected the dance of assiduously avoiding each other. We sit on opposite sides of the dining hall. Rows away from each other in class. I shower at night. Baz showers in the morning. I study in the library. Baz studies here. 

I stay on my side of the room, he stays on his. 

Except when he’s storming across to my side so he can shut the window. Which is practically every night. It’s our one enduring act of aggression. 

Well, that and me swiping his salt and vinegar crisps. But he nabs my mint Aeros so I suppose we’re square on that. 

What am I going to do about this? I skim the message one more time, trying to take in the details. 

_“Please reply to this email within ten days.”_

_“Dates and itinerary are highlighted below.”_

_“Please include traveler information on the attached form. Each traveler must complete their own individual form.”_

Ten days. I don’t know why I even bother making a note of it. It’s not like I’m going to miraculously find someone to go on this trip with me in the next week. 

But I can’t make myself give up on it so easily. Not yet. 

I’m not ready yet. 

Maybe there’s fine print somewhere on the website that makes allowances for unexpected break-ups. I mean, it’s been months since I submitted my entry. Relationships can start and end in that amount of time, yeah? 

I wad up the printout and toss it in the bin. I’ll look at the website. I’ll see if there’s any way to salvage this. 

I wish I could ask Penny for help. She’s an absolute corker at drafting sternly worded missives to faceless organizations that have somehow crossed her. Even if the fine print doesn’t have a loophole, Penny would likely find one. Or create one. Or bully them into making one. She’s fierce when she’s riled up. 

But I don’t want to tell her. If there isn’t a loophole I know what she’ll do and that’s not fair to her. 

I can manage this myself. If I’m capable of writing the winning essay I should be able to sort this. 

A twenty-minute deep dive into the small print in far too many pages of _terms of agreement_ clarifies one thing: I can’t sort this. 

The contest rules are crystal clear that this is for couples. I don’t qualify as a single traveler. 

Fuck. 

I’m going to call them. I can’t be the first person this has happened to. 

The worst they could say is no. 

I’m certain they’re going to say no. 

**Baz**

I can hear Snow’s voice as I reach the landing in front of our door. I assume Bunce is making one of her unauthorized visits but Snow’s tone is more strident than I’d expect for a conversation with her. 

And it sounds decidedly one-sided. 

He must be on his mobile and that’s an even more unusual circumstance. I’ve never seen him do anything but text and play games on the damn thing. 

Or listen to offensively cheerful pop music. Without headphones.

He’s a menace. 

But he’s a gorgeous menace.

He’s also the bane of my existence thanks to the unfortunate fact that I’ve been hopelessly in love with Simon Snow since fifth year. Probably earlier but I wasn’t prepared to admit it. 

I’m still not prepared to admit it to anyone other than myself. And reluctantly at that. 

I can’t make out any of his actual words through the door. He’s sure to get fired up if I walk in right now but I can’t just loiter here and wait for him to finish whatever it is he’s doing. I’ve an essay to write, a maths assignment to complete and a chapter to read for French. 

I open the door and stride in. 

Snow’s eyes dart to me but he doesn’t stop pacing, mobile clutched to his ear. I drag my eyes away from the sight of him, away from his gloriously flushed cheeks and tawny skin, his oh-so-ordinary blue eyes, the scatter of freckles and moles that dot his face and neck and forearms. 

He’s in a strop and he’s absolutely delectable. 

I unobtrusively eavesdrop as I empty my school bag. 

“Are you certain there are no extenuating circumstances for a situation like this?” Snow’s voice washes over me. I dare another glance and catch sight of him swallowing. It’s a whole scene--he’s got such a long, lovely neck. 

I bring my focus back to the stack of books on my desk, the folders, the orderly piles of paper, and I busy myself with reorganizing them as he paces across to the window. 

“Right.” Snow changes direction and marches back toward the door again. “Right. Yes, but I didn’t know the dates when I . . . yes, well, I can’t quite block off an entire summer waiting on . . . yes, yes, I know that.” He runs a hand through his hair. From the look of his curls he’s been ravaging them for awhile. “Yes, but could you possibly grant me an extension? To sort things a bit? Since I’ve got two schedules I’m working with?” He hassles his unruly mop again, fingers curling into a fist as he yanks at a lock. “Right. Right, then. Yes, I’ll be in contact before the deadline. Thank you for your time.” That last bit is growled out between clenched teeth. 

His mobile bounces as it hits his mattress but remarkably doesn’t fall to the floor. I suppose having a rat’s nest of a bed has a few advantages. 

I arch an eyebrow and curl my lip. “Some bills past due, Snow?”

“Piss off, Baz.” Snow is standing by his bed, hands fisted at his sides. He really does look upset. I decide to dial it back a bit. We’ve got less than two weeks left as roommates and then he’ll be gone from my life for good. I may as well savour these few moments that we have together. 

He’s more than upset. His typical expression of anger and frustration is much more a clenched-jaw look and far less a crestfallen, watery-eyed appearance. If I didn’t know him better I’d say he was close to tears. 

He _is_ close to tears. I see it just as he turns away to stomp over to the window (already open, of course). He swipes the back of his hand across his eyes and then drops his head onto his crossed arms as they come to rest on the window sill. 

I’ve not seen Snow cry in years. Not since third year. Not even when Wellbelove broke up with him weeks ago. 

I don’t know what to do. 

Part of me wants to rush across the room and circle my arm around his shoulders, pull his head against my chest and let him cry it out in my embrace. I long to sweep the curls back from his forehead. Wipe his tears away with my sleeve. Press a soft kiss to the rumpled mess of him. 

And part of me wants to run out the door, down the stairs, across the drawbridge to the depths of the Wavering Wood so that I can shout out my frustrated, unrequited love for him into the silence of the trees. 

I do neither. I stand there, staring at Snow’s back, and then take a tentative step closer to him. “Snow? You all right?”

I take another step closer when he doesn’t respond. “Snow?”

He shakes his head, still hunched over his arms. “I’m all right, Baz.”

I should leave it at that. I should sit at my desk and start on my school work and let Snow sort himself. 

But I’m weak for him. 

“You don’t seem to be.” I take another step. I’m inches away from him now. He’ll stumble into me if he turns around too quickly.  
  
I’m that close. 

“What’s going on, Snow?”

I hear a muffled snort. “Nothing you’d care about. It’s my stupid problem. Just leave it, Baz.” 

“Very well, then. I’m sure Bunce will get it sorted.” That’s how it usually goes. Snow gets into some sort of scrape and then Bunce sets things to rights. It’s a pattern they’re well used to. 

Snow gives another wet snuffle. “Not bloody likely.”

I huff. “Snow, I find it hard to believe you’ve got a problem Bunce can’t solve. She’s tenacious and irrepressible. I pity anyone who crosses her.” 

“She can’t solve it if she doesn't know about it.” 

I’m taken aback by his words. This is more forthcoming than Snow has ever been about his affairs.To me, at least. I’m right in thinking whatever is going on has upset him deeply. He typically doesn't confide in me, not even to this limited extent. 

It’s not only his sincerity that is unsettling me but also the fact that he hasn’t told Bunce anything about it. He doesn’t keep secrets from her. 

He tells her _everything._ I would hazard a guess Wellbelove didn’t appreciate that much. I’d not be surprised if that detail played into their break-up. 

Not that I would know. All I do know is that Bunce defied the ban and showed up in our room every night that week, to commiserate with Snow. 

And to bring him snacks. 

Snow is still hunched over, forehead resting on his crossed arms. He’s the picture of dejection and it’s making me act stupid, as if the waves of misery emanating from him are compelling me to intervene. 

There’s hardly more than a few inches between us. I can smell the aroma of the school issue soap on him, mixed with that unique Snow scent–freshly mown grass with a slight tang of sweat. 

I watch my hand rise up, of its own volition, and rest on Snow’s shoulder. I’ve lost all semblance of self-control. 

I can feel the warmth of him seeping through his shirt. I give his shoulder a squeeze. “Snow?” I say again, my voice gentler than I intend. 

I’m so fucking weak for him. 

I can tolerate seeing him angry. I’m used to it, really. I’ve grown accustomed to his temper, his growling frustration. I’m an expert at dealing with him when he’s argumentative. I can match him barb for barb when he's being sarcastic. 

I can deal with the whistling, his tuneless humming, the way his leg jiggles when he sits at his desk. The infernal pencil tapping when he studies. 

It hurts to see him when he’s happy, to know he’s thinking of Bunce or Wellbelove or any number of people that aren’t me. 

He’d never spare a smile like that for me. 

But it hurts even more when I see him like this–downhearted and miserable–because I know there’s nothing I can do to help. 

I’m not the one he wants when he’s like this. 

I’m not someone he wants at all. 

I don’t know what I’m doing. My hand’s still on his shoulder. He hasn’t shoved my arm off or jerked away. 

He hasn’t answered me either. I should take my hand off him but instead I find myself speaking again. “Come on, Snow. I’m in a rare benevolent state of mind. You may as well take advantage of that before it disappears for good.”

His head comes up and I slide my hand from his shoulder and jam it in my pocket. It felt so good to touch him, even if it was only for a moment. I’ve longed to do that. 

I’ve got a whole list of things I long to do to Snow but it doesn’t do me any good to dwell on that. 

I squeeze my hand into a fist, hidden in my pocket, and raise an eyebrow. “Spill, Snow. How bad could it be?”

I expect to hear something devastating. That his uni plans have fallen through, that he and Bunce lost the lease for their flat, that he’s failing a class and won’t graduate. That he’s back with Wellbelove. 

That last one would only be devastating to me, I suppose, not Snow. 

The story comes out in fits and starts. Snow isn’t good at presenting a coherent narrative. 

“But you’ve _won_ ,” I say, when he’s finished. He’s moved to his bed now, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. “You’ve got the confirmation and everything.”  
  
I’m a mirror image across the room, back set against the stone wall, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over my chest. 

“Yes, but the rules say it’s for a _couple._ I’m not a couple. I’m just me.” 

“I’m sure there’s some kind of accomodation for that.” 

“There’s not. The website was pretty clear about it and the bloke on the phone confirmed it. If I don’t have a partner I don’t have a trip.” Snow tilts his head back and closes his eyes.  
  
His neck is on display, the long line of it, muscles shifting when he swallows. Mesmerising. 

I clear my throat and drag my eyes away from him. “Does it have to be a significant other? Why can’t you just take Bunce?”

He groans. “She’s got plans to be in Chicago all summer. I’m not going to bollocks up her summer to accommodate mine.”

“Well, that’s very kind but ultimately short-sighted of you. Who wouldn’t want to go on a vacation like that?”

He groans again.

“No, I’m serious. Who wouldn’t? If Bunce can’t go why not ask someone else?”

He shifts his head to give me a penetrating look. “And who would I ask? I won’t ask Penny and I can’t ask Agatha. That would be right awkward.” He sighs. 

I wave my hand at him. “You’ve got more friends than just Bunce and Wellbelove.”

Snow frowns. “Really, Baz. I can’t. I can’t ask Phillippa. She’ll get the wrong idea and I don’t want to hurt her feelings again.”

Phillippa Stainton has been in love with Simon Snow since first year. I think she’s actually pined for Snow longer than I have. She’d drummed up the courage to ask him to the Winter Formal fifth year and had stammered it out in front of half the class. It was just her luck that Wellbelove had invited Snow the day before. 

He was kind about turning her down. I think I fell a little more in love with Snow that day, at the tenderness of him when he told her he couldn’t be her date. 

Phillippa stopped talking to any of us for the rest of the term. I think she was mortified that it happened in public. 

She’s warmed back up now but Snow’s right. It would be cruel to get her hopes up. I can’t help but ask the question though, now that it’s in my mind. I don’t know why I torture myself like this but I need to know. “You don’t have feelings for her, then?”

Snow shakes his head. “No. Never have. That’s why I can’t ask her. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

“No, you’re right. That’s very thoughtful of you, Snow. You know she’d say yes in a heartbeat if you asked.” 

We sit in silence for a few minutes. “Could you ask Keris?”

He frowns. “No. I can’t. Baz, this is supposed to be a _couple_ thing. I wouldn’t want to do that to Keris. Not if Trixie couldn’t go. Same with Rhys and Gareth. It’s not fair to ask one and not the other. Not when they’re a couple already. I can’t fake date one of them for this trip. It’d be wrong.”

He’s got my attention now. My heart has picked up its pace at his words. 

_A couple thing_.  
  
 _Fake dating._

_Snow would consider going on this holiday with a bloke._

That changes everything. 

“What do you mean _‘fake dating’_? Why can’t you just bring along a friend?” I can feel a tiny flicker of hope flare up in my heart. 

Snow rolls his eyes. “The contest was for a _romantic_ getaway. It’s a dream vacation for a couple. That’s what my whole essay was about.” He sighs and drops his head, hands raking through his already mussed hair. “The winners are supposed to get interviewed along the way and they even send a photographer to take photos to post to their social media sites. It’s a marketing thing for them, to get people to plan honeymoons and anniversary trips through their website. It would be right awkward to have me mooning about on my own.” 

_Romantic getaway._ _Fake dating._ Those words keep repeating in my head. 

I’ve got to think this through. I’ve got to figure out a way to make this happen. I wouldn’t have to fake anything. I’m already besotted with this muppet. 

I need Simon Snow to realize I’m the one he needs to ask. 

The best way to do that is with a list. 

I spring up from the bed and march across the room to the whiteboard I use for my football schedule and looming assignments. There’s nothing worthwhile on it at the moment so I wipe the surface clean and stand in front of the blank board for a moment as I gather my thoughts. 

  
  



	2. Oblivious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by the wonderful [captainpawss](https://captainpawss.tumblr.com/post/627898455542661120/the-world-in-my-eyes-tbazzsnow-artescapri)

**Chapter 2–Oblivous**

**Simon**

Baz is standing at the whiteboard, marker in hand, brow furrowed in thought. 

I’m gaping at him. He nearly ended me third year when I accidentally bumped into his board and smeared a corner of his schedule. And now he just wiped out the whole thing–all his assignments and due dates and violin practices–didn’t even take a photo of it so he can put it all back later. 

I don’t know what he’s thinking. 

I think . . . I think he’s trying to help me. Which is ludicrous, really. I mean, that’s not what Baz does. Baz exists to annoy me, to spout off condescending and near indecipherable insults–in that posh twat voice of his–that leave me quivering with barely suppressed rage and growling incoherent retorts that always land flat. 

I can’t think when he does that. Gives me that cool stare, one eyebrow up, lips curving into a smirk. He scrambles my brains. I get hot and sweaty and jumbled up when he starts in on me. 

Not that he’s any less unsettling now, with his jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, forearm muscles bunched as he grips the marker. He darts a single glance in my direction and then he’s writing–letters perfectly lined up, straight and flowing across the whiteboard, nothing like my cramped scrawl. 

“What we know,” Baz says, eyeing me again. He writes _Snow can’t go alone_ under the heading and then adds _interviews_ and _instagram stories_ with a question mark after it. 

I nod my head. “Yeah. The company– _Ends of the Earth_ , it’s called–wants us to post photos and whatnot on our social media and repost the things they put on theirs.” Baz swipes the question mark away. “I don’t even have an Instagram.”

That gets me another look and an arched eyebrow. “Come on now, Snow. Not even to blog about food?”

I shake my head. “Didn’t seem to be any point in it. I’m either here or at the homes. That’s not exactly Instagram material.”

Baz writes _Snow needs Instagram_ at the bottom of the list. “We can remedy that. I’ll help you set one up.”

Baz shifts a bit and then writes _what we don’t know_ on the right hand side of the board. He looks at me again. “So, we don’t know for certain if it’s ok to have a friend go with you or if it’s ah . . .” He pauses and swallows. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Baz at a loss for words. “If platonic companions um, qualify. . . or if it’s purely . . . if a romantic component . . .” He stops again and frowns at the whiteboard. 

I don’t know why this part of it has him flustered. But he is one of those wankers who’s a stickler for rules and regulations. Would never cross any lines, even if it was for something important. 

I put him out of his misery. “I need to have a companion. Full stop. It has to look romantic to the company, but it obviously doesn’t have to be that way behind the scenes.” I thump my head against the wall. “This is stupid, Baz. There’s no point to it. There’s no one I can ask, there’s no other work around that I can think of. I need to let it go, let some other couple have at it.”

Baz lifts his head and throws his shoulders back at my words, chin up, somehow managing to look imperious and casual simultaneously. His hair’s fallen out of its usual slicked back state, the dark waves framing his face as he meets my gaze. 

_It looks good like that,_ I think to myself and then shake my head. I’ve got more important things to focus on than Baz’s hair. 

Like the email I need to send regretfully declining this trip. 

Fuck it all. 

**Baz**

This gorgeous muppet is going to make me say it. I desperately want Snow to figure out that I’m the one he should ask to accompany him on this trip but he’s too thick to catch on. 

Fuck it all. 

Fine then. I make another column. Squeeze it into the corner of the whiteboard. Title it _possible candidates_ and start listing names. Maybe this will get through to him. Then I won’t have to actually ask. 

Bloody hell, the thought of me begging to go on this trip with him. 

I would though. If he doesn’t catch on, it’s going to come to that. I’ll damn well do it. Cross that bloody line for him. 

And not just because I’m absolutely yearning to spend two uninterrupted weeks alone with Snow. That I’m pining for a chance to be with him as something more than enemies, more than bickering roommates. To show him I can be his friend, if nothing else. 

So that I won’t lose him forever when we leave Watford. That I’ll be able to hold on to that. To him, in some small way. 

It’s more than that. I will do anything I can to get Snow his dream trip. I will not let him back out of this. I won’t let him give up. 

Even if it doesn’t end up being me accompanying him. It will be enough to give him something good. Something special. Something unique and memorable that I’ve played some part in. 

I tell myself that. 

But, fuck, I want it to be me. 

I want him _to choose me_. 

I square my shoulders and risk another glance at Snow. He’s slumped against the wall, head back, arms limp at his sides. 

Fuck _Ends of the Earth_. Fuck some other couple. 

This is Snow’s dream and I’m damn well going to make sure it comes true. 

**Simon**

Baz gives me an odd look, then leans forward to start a new column on the whiteboard. It’s not that big a board but somehow it all looks neat and tidy and organized.

I can’t see what he’s written until he steps back. 

_Possible candidates_ it says in Baz’s small, sloped script. And then a list of names. 

_Penelope_

_Agatha_

_Rhys_

_Keris_

_Trixie_

_Gareth_

_Philippa_

_Eleanor_

_Ian_

_Niall_

_Dev_

_Baz_

The last few names are squeezed in the bottom corner of the board.

“It’s no good,” I say. “I told you why I can’t ask those people.” 

I swallow. I can’t ask anyone on this list. I don’t even know why Baz put Niall and Dev on there. I’ve not exchanged more than a handful of words with either of them in all eight years I’ve been here and most of those were insults. I’d never consider asking them. It’s ludicrous.

But what’s really throwing me here is Baz’s name. Why did he put himself on the list? Probably just taking the piss. Another way to show me how few friends I actually have, I suppose. 

Which is true, when I scan the names in front of me. I can’t really call any of them friends except for Penny. 

And Agatha, I suppose. She’s still a friend of sorts. 

I’m friendly with some of the others but not close enough to actually consider spending two weeks alone with them. 

I shake my head. “Baz, come on. You know I can’t ask anyone on that list.” 

“Not _can’t_ , Snow. You just _won’t_. There’s a difference.”

“Whatever. Still ends up with me not having anyone to go with me.” 

Baz rolls his eyes, managing to look both bored and disdainful. Typical. 

“Go through the list with me.” He taps the marker by Penny’s name. “Start with Bunce.”

“She’s going to Chicago with her dad.”

Baz puts a line through Penny’s name. “Wellbelove.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I’m not asking my ex-girlfriend to go on a romantic trip with me.”

He crosses Agatha’s name off with a flourish, like he’s well satisfied with it. I always thought he had his eye on her. It used to piss me off no end. 

I was practically certain he’d ask her out himself when she and I broke up. 

I was dead certain Agatha would say yes. 

But Baz never asked. Odd that. 

He’s tapping at the board again, next to Rhys’s name. “Pay attention, Snow. I’ve not got all night. My schoolwork isn’t going to magically do itself.” 

“I told you. I’m not going to ask someone who’s half of a couple. It would be weird and awkward and . . . well, it’s just not right.”

Baz crosses out Rhys, Keris, Trixie, and Gareth. He pauses by Philippa’s name, glances at me and then crosses her off too. 

I don’t make him wait this time. “I hardly know Eleanor.” 

Eleanor plays lacrosse with Agatha and sits two rows behind me in History. A fierce player, almost as ruthless as Baz when she’s on the field. She practically doesn’t speak off it. I can’t imagine asking her, let alone spending two weeks in near silence with someone I don’t know at all. “No, Baz. I can’t ask her and there’s no way she’d say yes.”

“Oh ye of little faith. You never know what someone’s answer is going to be, Snow. People aren’t always that predictable.” He’s looking right at me as he says that. Not a smirk or an eyebrow raise in sight. It’s oddly more unsettling than when he glares at me. It’s solemn and serious and weirdly intense. 

I can feel my face heat up but I can’t look away. 

Baz finally turns his gaze back to the board and slowly puts a line through Eleanor’s name.

His marker hovers over Ian. I shake my head. “Same thing, Baz. I hardly know him.”

I’ve partnered up with Ian in Chemistry. And in Physics. He’s a good sort. Well fit. 

And he plays football. He’s good, not as good as Baz of course, but then no one’s as good as Baz on the field. 

Baz is strong. Graceful. Fucking ruthless. 

He’s relentless.

Just like he’s being now, tapping at the board again to make me pay attention. “Baz, I told you, I can’t ask him.” 

Baz actually huffs at me. It shifts a strand of hair off his face when he does it. “Snow. Ian’s been your lab partner for three years. He’s kept you from blowing up the place.” 

“That’s a right good reason for him to say no, now that you mention it.” 

He gives me that look again, the weirdly intense one that makes me jittery. “You never know what someone’s answer is going to be, Snow,” he says again, his eyes never leaving mine. 

“I’m not asking him, Baz. Give it a rest.” I’m relieved when he turns his attention back to the board. I don’t know why it’s so unnerving. He’s just looking at me. We’ve looked at each other for eight years. 

But I don’t think we’ve really seen each other. 

I’ve got no idea where that came from. I don’t know what I’m thinking. 

  
  
  


**Baz**

“Your prospects are dwindling rapidly, Snow.”

“They aren’t even prospects, Baz. I told you. I just need to send my regrets and decline the whole damn thing.”

Over my dead body. I am going to end up asking him myself, damn it, if he doesn't get it through his thick skull. “They’re all you’ve got at the moment, unless there’s someone I’ve forgotten to list?”

Snow crosses his arms and frowns. It’s almost a pout. It’s bloody magnificent. I clear my throat and tap the whiteboard again. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with Niall where he’s not called me a dick,” Snow grumbles.

I raise an eyebrow. “You could pass it off as a term of endearment.” 

It is for me. Every insult to Snow is to keep me from saying what I want to say. To forestall the tender words that threaten to spill from my lips. 

Snow scoffs. “Right, that’d go over well on my Instagram story. Hearing my so-called boyfriend calling me a dick. Peak romance there, Baz.”

The casual way he says _boyfriend_ nearly undoes me. I turn my attention to crossing Niall’s name off so forcefully that it rattles the whiteboard. 

This was a stupid idea. It’s bloody torture. He’s never going to even consider taking me. I’ve called him far worse than _dick_ and now I’m dreading what he’s going to say when we reach my name. 

I tap on Dev’s name, just for completeness’ sake. 

“Seriously, Baz? He hates me almost as much as you do.” 

“I don’t hate you, Snow.” The words come out unbidden, as I scrape the marker across Dev’s name, nearly obliterating it. I should just cross mine off as well. This is pointless. Hopeless. 

“Could have fooled me.”

I turn away from the whiteboard. Snow’s still got his arms crossed and his pout has definitely morphed into a full-on frown. I’m wasting my time here. He’s never going to ask me. He’s never going to _get it_. 

He can’t even tolerate me trying to find a way out of this muddle for him. Writing it out in black and white, for clarity. Green and white to be exact, but it’s all the same in the end. 

He doesn’t want my assistance. _He doesn’t want me_. 

“Christ, Snow, can you hear yourself? I’m trying to _help you.”_ I wave my hand in the direction of the board, knocking a book off my desk as I do. “I’m taking time out of my day to help you solve your bloody travel conundrum. And you’re being an absolute pillock about the whole thing.” I tap the marker next to my name, the only one that’s not been crossed off. “Any person on this list would be happy to go with you, elated at the opportunity, content in the fact that they were helping you out. Every single one of them.” Fucking hell. I’ll be spilling it all out if I don’t shut up. 

I bend down to pick up my errant book, to hide the raw emotion that’s surely visible on my face. I can’t hold up the mask anymore. I want this too much and it’s slipping away from me.

I drop the book on my desk and turn away from him to rub at my forehead with my free hand. This is making my head ache. 

“Even you?” 

That makes me turn back around. I’m met with Snow’s eyes staring right at me, that boring blue I know so well. The unremarkable blue of a summer morning sky. The faded blue of well-worn jeans. Not robin’s egg or cornflower or any of those trite descriptions. 

The blue of the sea at sunset, restless waves shimmering with glints of silver. A blue that’s so uniquely _him_ , like no one else. 

Nothing boring about it. That’s just the lie I tell myself. It’s the blue that haunts my dreams and fuels my fantasies. 

It’s the blue that makes me lose any semblance of self-control. 

“Even me, Snow. I’d be with you in a heartbeat.” 

_Fuck it all._

  
  


**Simon**

“Come off it, Baz. You can’t stand me. Why would you even consider going with me?” It’s back again, that look of his. The solemn, serious one that’s weirdly vulnerable. The one that makes me feel queasy but in a good way.  
  
_What the fuck am I even thinking?_

It’s piercing and uncomfortable and like Baz is trying to peer into my bloody soul, for fucks sake. It’s that intense and I want him to stop but I can’t look away, so I keep staring at him. 

He looks away first.

“Perhaps because I’ve never been to Athens,” he says peevishly, tapping the marker against his trouser leg. It’s so unlike him. I’m usually the one with the nervous energy. 

What’s Baz got to be nervous about?

“Oi. You're going to bugger up your trousers with that marker.”

He glances down but it's already too late. He’s got smears of coloured marker marring the grey of his uniform trousers. 

Baz slams the marker down onto his desk. “That’s what I get for trying to help you, Snow,” he sneers. “It always ends in a mess when it involves you.”

He may be sneering but his tone doesn’t match. It’s not as sharp as I’d expect. He sounds more hurt than irritated, which makes me narrow my eyes and really look at him. 

He’s not meeting my eyes now, for one, and he’s still jittery, which is making me twitch. 

That’s not like him. Not like him at all. 

And that’s when I realise. He has been helping, in his own bossy and irritating way. He’s been reasonable and methodical and patient and a whole host of other adjectives I can’t quite put my finger on. 

He’s not been insulting or called me any names. He’s being . . . well, he’s almost being _nice_. 

I think he meant what he said just now. Not the thing about his trousers. The thing about the trip. 

I think he actually does want to go to Athens. Even if it’s with me. 

He’s not going to come out and ask me, because he’s Baz Pitch and he doesn’t ask people for things, not unless he’s plotting. 

I don’t think he’s plotting. Not this time. 

**Baz**

I thought I’d plotted this whole scenario out. That Snow would get to the end of my list, see that he was out of other viable options and decide to choose me. Instead he’s being thick as usual and we’re either going to have one of our blazing rows or I’m going to launch myself across the room and snog him senseless. 

I do neither of those things. I snatch up my books and my bag and storm out of the room. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song Oblivious by Aztec Camera


	3. That Smiling Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5y8lCI6MzF6QCG0JXVZcod?si=oAtd3b0bT4-DyZazEmRyxw%22)

**Chapter 3**

**Simon**

The door slams behind Baz. I’m not sure what just happened.

He is a right proper git about his clothes, but I don’t think it’s just his trousers upsetting him. 

I mean, Baz gets this way sometimes, completely exasperated with me, especially when he thinks I’m being particularly thick. But he usually just tosses a string of insults in my direction. 

He doesn’t usually storm out. Not anymore. He’s not done that in years. 

Not since fifth year. Not since the night I followed him to the Catacombs, desperate to get the last word with him, determined to make him _see me_. Not the Headmaster’s charity case, not Agatha’s unsuitable boyfriend, not the painfully earnest git featured in the new Watford brochures and promotional adverts.

Me. Simon Snow. The boy who’d held out his hand once, who thought Watford might be the place he finally _fit,_ who had been so desperate for a friend. 

Who still–even after five years of disdain and distance–tried to make something better of it. 

I didn’t know about his mother. I mean, I knew she’d been the headmistress before Professor Mage. I knew she wasn’t alive anymore. 

I didn’t know she was buried in the Catacombs. Not until that night. Not until I found him, seated with his back against the stone wall, a faded clump of flowers near his feet. A plaque above his head with _Natasha Pitch_ etched into it. 

It made it real to me then, in that moment. What he’d lost. 

It made me jealous in that moment, is what it did. Which was shitty of me, I know that, but he still _had her_. Baz had memories. Photographs. A place he could be with her. Where he could remember, even if it hurt. 

I had nothing. I never would. 

None of that was Baz’s fault. 

I walked away. I left him and I’ve never followed him down there since. He deserves that time with his mum. It’s all he has left and I’m not enough of a dick to muck with that. 

I looked it up after. That summer when I was in care. I searched _Natasha Pitch_ on the library computer, the first time we had a day out. 

I don’t know why I didn’t look it up on my laptop at Watford in the weeks after. I suppose I didn’t want to risk Baz catching me doing a search. 

But it was all I could think about once I got to the home. Baz and his mum. I wanted to know what happened to her. I hadn’t asked Penny; she’d have fussed at me, told me I needed to stop obsessing over Baz. 

I don’t obsess over Baz. He’s just _everywhere_ , all the time. An insidious part of my life. An irritating, mosquito-like presence–buzzing around and biting with his commentary, swooping in to distract me and then darting away, a constantly moving target I can never reach, leaving me irritated and prickly and ready to crawl out of my skin half the time.

Not as irritating this year. All the fire’s gone out of us this last term. We dance around each other, habitual in our attempts to give each other space now, the insults and needling more fueled by rote than rage anymore. Like we’re going through the motions because it’s expected of us. 

My heart’s not in it. 

Hasn’t really been since that summer. Since I found out the truth about his mum.

I didn’t know she’d died here at Watford. I didn’t know the nursery had caught fire or that she’d been the one who’d rushed in, before the emergency services arrived, trying to get the children out. 

I didn’t know that Baz was one of those children. 

That he’d watched as she’d run back in, searching for a child that wasn’t even there that day, the number of children in the ledger she kept in her head convincing her there was one more she needed to rescue. 

He’d seen the beam that fell, blocking the door. Blocking her way out. Keeping the rescue team from reaching her in time. 

Baz had been there for it all. It was in every record, every sensational story in newspapers across the country. _The Watford Tragedy_ they called it, every account mentioning the son who saw it all from the safety of the courtyard. Right where his mother had left him, rooted to the spot. One paper said he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t let anyone touch him, not until his father came. Not until his aunt and father carried him away. 

I don’t know how he came back here. I don’t know how he walks through that courtyard every day, leans against that tree, sees the empty space where the nursery building used to be. 

Sees someone else in his mother’s office. Someone else’s name where hers should be.

It was harder to find the will to bite back at him once I knew the story. I mean, it’s not like we stopped fighting and joined hands to sing a song about cooperation like the first years do, but our spats didn’t have their sharp edges. Not from me.

Not from him. 

Maybe Baz’s heart wasn’t into all the conflict anymore either. I’ll never know. We didn’t talk about it. We don’t talk about things, not me and Baz. It’s actions and reactions, flares and embers. 

Except for tonight. 

Tonight . . . I mean, tonight almost felt _friendly_ , for a bit there. Not like me and Penny, obviously. Penny’s my best friend. But it felt . . . well, it felt like it could be something more. 

Something better than fighting. Something better than a wary distance. 

That’s why I can’t figure out why Baz left in such a huff. He’s sneered his way through worse. 

I stare at the whiteboard, at the words written out in his neat, precise handwriting, trying to figure out what set him off. 

I’m not being thick this time. I’m being realistic. There’s a difference. 

It’s all laid out there on the board. All the reasons I don’t get to have this. 

_What we know. What we don’t know. Possible candidates._

Just one name he didn’t cross off. His. 

Didn’t bother to do it before he stalked off in a right snit. 

I don’t know why I’m so unsettled about Baz leaving. It’s not like fighting is something new or different for us. It isn’t. 

It’s not as if we’re even friends, no matter how it felt earlier. We’re reluctant roommates who detest each other, basically. 

It didn’t feel like that tonight.

It felt . . . well, I don’t know what it felt like but I liked it. 

Baz was as good as Penny at trying to solve this. Just as persistent too. 

More exasperated, but I think that’s the state Baz exists in when he’s around me. 

I’m staring at his name. It’s in the corner of the whiteboard, all swirly lines and loops. 

_“Even me, Snow.”_

Would he though? Would he really? I mean, he said he wants to go to Athens. (Probably to show off how good he is at Greek, the tosser.) (Do they speak that form of Greek in Greece still?) (Or is it like Chaucer coming back to London now?) (It would be a laugh to see Baz try it and have them stare at him like he’s some relic from the Middle Ages.)

Baz could go to Athens any time, I’d think. His family is posh and well-off and from old money. He could jet off to Paris or Athens or any place he damn well pleases. 

He’s actually been to Ibiza. Said he didn’t like it. I think that’s rot. Probably told them to turn the music down at the beach clubs so he could read his book, the prat. 

I’m still staring at his name on the board. 

_“You never know what someone’s answer is going to be, Snow.”_

Christ, I really want to go on this trip. I know I told Baz I should email them my regrets but I don’t want to. 

I don’t want to. 

I don’t even know what possessed Baz to help me tonight–trying to convince me not to let this dream of mine slip away from me–and I shot down every one of his suggestions. 

And deep down, I know he’s right. I’d have to be a fool to say no to this. 

No wonder he thinks I’m thick. 

I drop my head, my fingers coming up to tug at my hair. I’m a fool to think I can bear to let this go, but I’m an even bigger idiot if I think anyone I ask wouldn’t jump at the chance for a _free luxury trip_ , even if it means having to put up with my company for two weeks. 

I bet even Niall wouldn’t say no to that. He’d probably still find a way to call me a dick, I’d wager. 

I lift my head to look at the list of names one more time. The name that’s not crossed off. 

_“You never know . . .”_

I suppose Baz is right. I can’t know if I don’t ask. Fine, then. I’ll call his bluff. He said he’d go with me in a heartbeat. I don’t believe it. 

I think he was trying to be nice. Which makes this whole thing even odder. Baz doesn’t try to be nice to me. He usually does just the opposite. Or ignores me, which is somehow worse. 

Maybe he does want to go to Athens after all. 

Only way to know for sure is to ask him, I suppose. 

I’d say he’s off to god knows where, but I actually have a good idea where he went. There are only a few places Baz goes when he’s not in our room and I’m fairly certain I know all of them. 

The pitch. The practice rooms. The library. The Catacombs. 

I can cross the pitch and the practice rooms off the list; he’s not got his kit or his violin. Leaves me with the library and the Catacombs. 

I push off my bed and make for the door. I’ll check the library. I won’t follow Baz if he’s gone to the Catacombs.

I’ll not disturb him if he’s paying his respects to his mother. 

I’m right. He is in the library; tucked away in the far corner, behind the stacks, his books spread out on the table, laptop in front of him. 

I expect him to look wary when I stride over to his table. He looks weary instead. Deflated. All the energy from before drained out of him. 

He frowns up at me, eyebrows lowered, lips thinned. “Make it quick, Snow. I’ve spent half my evening wasting time trying to save your summer and I still have an essay to finish.”

My bravado leaches out of me at his tone. I’d marched in here determined to call his bluff. Now I’m not so sure of myself. 

But fuck it all, I have to do it. One, ‘cos I won’t back down from a face-off with Baz. And two, because he’s my only bloody option to make this trip happen, no matter how surreal a circumstance that is. 

I’m calling his bluff. 

I smack my hands down on the table and lean forward. “Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what, Snow?”

He’s being purposefully contrary. I can tell. He’s got that curl to his lip. “Did you mean it when you said you’d go with me?”

  
  


**Baz**

My heart’s racing. 

Snow is standing in front of me, hair sticking up in untidy clumps, face flushed. His voice is far too loud; there’s no one here to shush him but me and I most certainly do not want to shush Snow right now. Not if he’s finally gotten a clue in his thick skull. 

He’s staring, lips parted, as he leans across the table. 

Mouth-breather. 

Fuck, he’s beautiful. 

I tear my eyes away from his mouth and lick my lips before I answer. Stupid of me, but my mouth’s gone dry. 

“I said I would.” I clear my throat. “I said anyone would.” 

Why am I like this? Why can’t I just leave it at that–that I’d go with him?

“You’re not taking the piss, Baz? This isn’t some joke to you, right?”

Of course he’d think that, wouldn’t he? I’ve not given any cause to think otherwise, these past eight years, but I can’t say it doesn’t hurt to hear it verbalised so bluntly. 

I sigh. “No, Snow. I’m not taking the piss. It sounds like a lovely trip and you’d be a fool to miss out on it. Anyone you ask to accompany you would be an idiot if they said no.” 

“You’d do it, then? Go with me?”

I roll my eyes. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Why?”

This is torture. Spelling it out is sheer misery. “Christ, Snow, we’ve been through this. It would be tragic for anyone to miss out on an opportunity like this, even you. We’ve figured out a work-around, I have no other summer plans, and . . .” 

I could say it now. I could say I want to do it for him. That I want to _be with him_. That I’d do anything for him, cross every line. 

But I don’t. 

Because I’m a coward. And a fool.

“And I’d quite like to go to Athens.”

Snow leans closer, bending over the table so all I can focus on are his eyes. “You’d have to do the fake dating thing, Baz. Are you sure you’re willing to put up with all that?”

This bloody moron. That’s the reason I want to go on this trip with him. Not the entire reason, mind you, but it’s definitely an enticing bonus. 

I know it will all be a sham. It’s still a way to at least live out some of my fantasies of dating Simon Snow, store away some bittersweet memories for once he’s out of my life for good. 

It will be the most exquisite torment, going on this trip with him–every touch, every glance, every choreographed romantic moment feeding the longing in my heart. All a hollow counterfeit of what could be, but if that’s all I can get, I’ll take it. 

I’ll take anything he’s willing to give me. 

I clear my throat again. “There would, of course, have to be some ground rules, parameters we work out ahead of time.”

Snow’s eyes are wide. His mouth’s still open, plush pink lips forming a surprised _“oh”_ at my words. “You really mean it?”

“Well, of course I mean it, you sodding numpty. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t.”

Snow straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ve not actually said yes, you know.” 

Bloody hell. He’s going to be the death of me and we’ve not even left yet. “Fine. _Yes_ , Snow, I will accompany you on this Continental adventure of yours,” I say testily. “Happy now?”

He’s grinning and nodding his head, looking for all the world like an excitable Golden Retriever who’s just spotted a treat. “Yes, yes, bloody hell, yes.” He’s beaming, the glorious nightmare. “This is fucking brillant, Baz. Really I mean it, it’s proper decent of you to help me out.”

He’s never looked at me this way. I’m gaping at him, I’m sure of it, but it’s a heady sensation being the sole focus of Snow’s radiance. 

I can feel my face flush, a rush of heat sweeping through me.

_I don’t want him to stop looking at me like this._

So, of course, I say the exact thing that’s going to make him stop. Because I’m wrung out, positively knackered after this helter-skelter of a night Snow’s put me through. I always get prickly when feelings are involved. 

Particularly when it comes to Snow. 

“Yes, well, I’m not all that altruistic. You’d be casting a pall of despair, moping around the room all through exams, if you had to pass this up. It’s self-preservation, with the added bonus of a chance to see the Parthenon in person.” 

It doesn’t dim his glow at all. If anything he brightens up _more._ The sight is blinding–Snow’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a dimple in his right cheek I don’t ever recall seeing this distinctly. He’s literally effervescent with joy. 

It’s making me feel a bit dizzy, to be honest. Drunk from the waves of exhilaration bubbling out of him, as if he’s champagne in human form and I’m just drinking in the sight of him. 

First dogs, now alcoholic beverages. This proximity to Snow is addling my brains. 

I’ll be spouting sonnets on this god-forsaken trip, if I don’t watch myself. _“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”_

Put me under the stars with Snow at my side and I’ll make a stupendous arse of myself. 

I’m making a fool of myself right now. Snow’s still grinning at me and I’m fucking grinning back. Will the humiliations never cease? 

I gather my scattered pens and arrange them next to my laptop, eyes down. “All right, Snow, you’ve got your answer. Now shove off. There’s work to be done.”

He pulls out the chair and seats himself across from me. “All right, then. What kind of ground rules were you thinking?”

I can’t do this now. I can’t do this here. I mean, _of course_ there have to be some ground rules, some lines in the sand, as it were. I need the boundaries clarified, the parameters clearly identified to keep myself in check, but also to protect myself from the irresistible, magnetic pull of Snow. 

To protect the secrets my soft heart holds. 

I school my face as I wave a hand at my laptop. “Snow. What part of _‘shove off’_ did you not comprehend? I’m not doing this now. I have work to finish, seeing as so much of my night has been spent sorting your summer vacation.” I relent a bit as I see his smile dim, my words losing their edge. “We can work through the details of all this later. We’ve got a bit of time before the paperwork is due.” 

“Right.” Snow stands, then leans over the chair once he’s pushed it back in place. This smile is softer than the one before, no less brilliant, but more contained. “Listen, Baz, thank you.” 

He puts his hand out. 

I remember another time. I remember the boy I was. 

That’s not who I am anymore. 

My hand clasps his, my grip firm, his palm warm against mine. “You’re welcome, Snow. Now, for the love of god, let me finish this essay in peace.” 

He gives my hand a squeeze and then straightens up, hands shoved into his pockets, grin back on his face. “Fucking brilliant, Baz.”

Then he’s gone. 

It’s late when I finally head to our room but the light is still on. Snow’s sitting on his bed, tapping away at his mobile, when I walk in. He sits up as soon as he sees me, all earnest eagerness.

“Oh good, you’re back.”

There’s a flutter in my chest. Snow’s certainly never said those words to me before. 

“Baz, I’ve been thinking.”

He’s changed his mind. I’m sure of it. He’s had time to think on it and decided I’m a bad bet. 

It’s to be expected. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. 

I bite back the snarky retort that instantly comes to my lips. 

I can’t let Snow see my disappointment.

I strive to keep my face impassive and my voice even as I drop my bag by my desk, slide my shoes off, and seat myself on my bed, facing him. “I’ll indulge you this time, Snow, as you’ve had a hectic day.” I lean back on my elbows. “What have you been thinking about?”

He stands and crosses to my side of the room and for a moment I think he’s headed to sit on my bed, but he moves past me to the whiteboard on the wall. 

He’s erased my writing from before and his own cramped scrawl is in its place. 

There’s two headings now: _things to do_ and _ground rules._

I have to fight to keep a grin from overtaking my face. He doesn’t want to back out. _He wants to do this._

(He wants me.) (Not like that. _)_

This is a better energy burst than adding a triple shot of espresso to my usual mocha breve, but I can’t let him see the sheer euphoria I’m feeling right now.

So I groan as I collapse back against the mattress, arm flung over my face in mock misery. “Please tell me we are not doing this now.”

Something bumps against my knee. Snow’s tossed a wadded up piece of paper. I sit up to grab it, consider tossing it back at him but resist the urge. I crumple it in my fist instead and heave a deep, put-upon sigh. “Will you at least make this brief?”

“Listen, I’ve already started on the lists.” Snow taps at the whiteboard. He’s scribbled a few things under the _things to do_ heading. 

_submit paperwork (me &Baz) _

_set up instagram (Baz said he’d help)_

_review itinerary_

_things to pack? (Baz can help?)_

_???_

The space under _ground rules_ is blank. 

Much like my mind at the moment. 

Snow taps at the board again. “Can you think of anything else we need to do?”

I stare at the words. I get a bit stuck at the _me &Baz _bit.

“Baz?

“Yes?” I turn my attention back to him. Snow changed into his pyjamas while I was out–school issue bottoms and a faded Watford lacrosse t-shirt that’s a bit snug across the chest. 

I get a bit stuck on that too. 

Snow knocks the marker against the board. “Can you think of anything I’ve forgotten?”

I make myself focus on his list again. “All seems in order. Do you have a passport?”

“Yeah. I applied for one when I sent in the entry.” 

“Seems adequate then. Give me the paperwork tomorrow. Now, can we call it a night?”

He taps at the board again. It’s exceedingly irritating when he does that. “Ground rules.” 

I bury my face in my hands. “Must we do this now?”

I can hear him moving closer and then I see his bare feet on the floor in front of me. “Baz.”

I look up. Scan along his low-slung pyjama bottoms, up to the shirt that’s clinging to him in the most delectable way, to the earnest blue eyes gazing down at me. There’s a curl on his forehead that I want to sweep back. A mole on his cheek that I want to kiss. 

His gaze doesn’t waver. “We have to talk about it. Now. Before you sign anything.” He swallows. “Before you commit to this.” He swallows again and my eyes drift down to his throat to watch the play of muscles there. “I know it’s going to be awkward as fuck.” 

My eyes meet his again. _I’d cross every line for you,_ I think to myself but all I say out loud is “That's par for the course for us, Snow.”

He ignores my weak attempt at humour. “I don’t want you agreeing to anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

I can see the shimmers of silver in his irises again, scattered against that background of anything-but-boring blue. 

If I move my sock-clad foot the slightest bit I’ll bump into his bare one. For an instant I consider it, consider shifting on the bed, my motion seemingly creating that accidental contact. 

I don’t. 

I already feel as if I’m poised at the edge of a cliff, a yawning abyss opening up before me. One wrong move and this is all over. 

I can’t make a misstep now. I swallow down the sharp retort that’s always ready to spill out of me and suppress the endearments that are bubbling to the surface. 

I’m a disaster.

“Fine, Snow. Let’s talk this through then, since you’re determined to hash it all out right this moment.” 

His serious look shifts to something softer, almost . . . well, I don’t know what to call it. I’m giddy enough from tonight’s events that I’m probably reading too much into everything.

Wistful. That’s what I’d call it. 

“I don’t want you to regret this, Baz. Or stick to it just because you’ve said you’d do it. None of that _“an Englishman’s word is his bond”_ rot, ok?”

As if anything could possibly cause me to change my mind. 

I lean back away from him, my hands supporting me on either side. “I said I’d go, Snow. I’m not going to back out on you. I’ve no concerns that my virtue will be compromised by your boyish charm.” I raise an eyebrow and smirk at him. I need to get myself back to my usual snarky form. I can’t have him thinking I’ve gone soft. 

It has the desired effect of making him scuttle across the room to the whiteboard, face flushed. 

I can feel the heat in my own cheeks but I keep my shoulders back, chin up. 

Snow stands there, marker in hand again. He’s using the purple one. I don’t know why I make note of it. 

He clears his throat. “All right then. But you should probably be the one laying out the rules, Baz, seeing as you brought them up.” 

This is definitely not going according to plan. I don’t even know where to start. I’ve no clue how to go about setting parameters for fake dating when _I’ve not actually dated anyone before._

I need to stall. 

“Not quite a ‘ _lay back and think of England_ ' situation here, Snow, so give me a moment.” Christ, where did _that_ come from? 

He splutters something incoherent as I desperately cast about for what to say. Preferably not anything as embarrassingly suggestive as my last few comments. 

Bloody hell. _I don’t want any rules,_ is the first thing that pops into my head but I know it’s folly to even let myself think that. 

I need rules. I need boundaries. I need iron-clad guidelines. 

I need Snow to start this discussion before I go up in flames. “You know more of what’s expected of us, Snow. You’re more familiar with the website and what we need to do to make this convincing.” 

Right. Now it’s on him. 

“Right.” Snow’s drumming his fingers against his thigh. “Right,” he says again. He seems nervous too, which somehow makes me even more so, instead of less. “Um. So. There’ll have to be selfies together.” 

He darts a glance at me. I nod. “That’s to be expected.”

“So, you’re ok with that?”

“No concerns.” I’ll at least have a gallery of photos of Snow after this trip, ones I can moodily scroll through and hopelessly pine over, once we return. 

“All right, then.” He writes _take selfies together_ under the heading. “So, um, there probably needs to be some uh, some . . . hand holding.” He’s facing the board but his ears have gone pink. 

My voice comes out far steadier than expected, considering how my heart’s pounding. “Right. Also to be expected.”

He scribbles down _hand holding_. 

I wait for him to turn around but he doesn’t. “Anything more, Snow?” 

I know there’s more. I’ve seen the website. I searched it out when I was at the library. 

I want him to say it. 

Instead he taps at the whiteboard, and I may in fact throw the lamp at him if he does that one more time. 

“Snow.” 

“There’s . . . there’s bound to be some . . . some call for, you know . . . .” 

He’s still knocking at the board which is truly driving me to the brink of sanity. “Out with it, Snow.” It comes out exasperated rather than needy, thank the stars. 

“Fucking hell.” Snow growls, still resolutely facing away from me. “Some kissing, all right? Like, you know, at the Eiffel Tower . . . or during some bloody romantic sunset or . . . I don’t know, just _kissing_. ” 

Christ. Just hearing him _say that_. 

All I can hear on repeat in my head is _kissing, kissing, kissing._

Snow finally turns to look at me, face blotchy and forehead creased. He’s not actually looking at me, his eyes are focused on some spot on the floor between us, which is probably for the best. I’m sure I look bloody _gleeful_ at the prospect and that won’t do at all. 

I pull myself together, try to school my features, furrow my brow to match his, purse my lips. 

Fuck, no, no _pursing_. I attempt a frown and then lick my suddenly dry lips and fucking hell, that’s no better. 

_Kissing, kissing, kissing._

I need to say something. “Oh, ah. . .” 

That’s not helpful. 

Snow does meet my eyes now and he’s still somewhat blotchy, but he also looks _concerned_ , which is definitely not how I want him to look when we’re talking about kissing. “Baz, we don’t have to do that, none of it, if any of it makes you uncomfortable. . .”

I wave my hand at him, in a desperate attempt at nonchalance. “It’s fine, Snow. It’s all fine. We’ll manage. I’ll be sure to tell you if I find anything unsettling, but I think we can handle this level of intimacy.”

I need to set myself on fire. There really is no other option at this point, now that I’ve stepped in it. Who the fuck mentions _intimacy_ , in a fucking fake dating scenario?

Me, that’s who. Because I’m weak and pathetic and so hopelessly in love with this fucking nightmare of a boy. 

Snow, predictably, looks alarmed. 

Fuck. That’s it, I’ve scared him off. I’ve messed this up, before we even filled in the paperwork. Made a complete bollocks of it. 

“Baz.” 

I pause berating myself and drag my attention back to Snow. He’s staring at me, eyes wide. 

“I forgot the most important thing,” he says.

“I thought you said you had a passport?”

“Not that,” he hisses, alarm briefly shifting to irritation before resurfacing. “The rooms. Er, the room, I should say.”

I’m lost now. I’ve no idea what he’s on about. 

“The rooms,” he repeats. “The bloody hotel rooms.”

“What about them? It sounded like they’d all be four star accomodations.” I raise my hand benevolently, “And I’ll manage if they’re not. It’s not like we’ll be staying at youth hostels.” I can’t suppress the shudder that runs through me at the thought of a room full of bunk beds and communal showers. 

Ugh. 

I get an eye roll from Snow. “Not the accommodations, you posh wanker.”

“Then what? You’re not making any sense, Snow. Rooms _are_ accommodations.” 

“I mean they’ll be expecting us to _share a room.”_

He’s still not making any sense. “Of course they’ll expect us to share a room. That’s kind of the point of a romantic getaway?” 

Fuck me. I’ve lost all semblance of self-control. _This isn’t a romantic getaway, Baz, this is you doing a fucking favor for Snow, full stop._

Snow seems to be oblivious to my blunder and keeps on talking. “We’ll be _sharing a room_ ,” he repeats, glaring at me meaningfully. 

Snow’s idiocy has reached new depths. 

I throw my hands up in the air and glare right back at him. “We _share a fucking room_ now, Snow. Has that somehow escaped your notice during the past eight years?”

He growls in response, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He manages to grit out words an instant later. “Hotel rooms, Baz. Not dorms. Not a hostel. _Hotel rooms_.” 

“Yes, with a proper bath instead of just a shower and no bunk beds in sight. Sounds heavenly.”

“Christ, you’re thick.” 

I sit up at that calumny. Snow calling me thick is not to be borne lightly. I open my mouth to say something scathing but he beats me to it. 

“The bed situation in hotel rooms, Baz. It’s not _this_.” He gestures at our beds. 

That stops me cold. An image of a king size bed–with more than enough room for Snow and me both–instantly comes to mind. 

I’d prefer something smaller to be honest. 

A vision of Snow lounging against massive pillows, hair still wet from the shower, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, materializes in my thoughts. 

A surge of heat rushes through me. This is not a path my mind needs to be traveling on right now. It won’t do _at all_. I push the image from my thoughts and drag my attention back to the live version of Snow fuming in front of me. 

Tempting fantasy though it may be, the truth of hotel rooms is that most of them are depressingly inhabited by two double beds or two queens. Not much of a change from the arrangement we have now. 

I allow myself a moment to enjoy how flustered Snow is by the thought of having to share a bed.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I am more than a little flustered by the thought myself. 

It’s all just wishful thinking on my part. We’ll be lucky if we get two queens. I know how hotels are on the Continent. 

I should put Snow out of his misery. “It’s certainly not far off from this,” I sweep my arm to encompass the room. “A sight smaller overall but other than that, not much different.”

“What do you mean? We’re not going to have two beds, Baz, not when we’re on a trip like that.” 

A thought strikes me: has Snow actually ever stayed at a hotel? It’s a valid question. He’s lived his whole life in the care homes, other than the years he’s spent here at Watford. His knowledge of hotels is likely to be exclusively from films and television shows. Not reality. 

My chest aches. I don’t know much about Snow’s life from before or even much about his life now, when he’s not at Watford. But the little I do know, from eavesdropping on his conversations with Bunce, makes me think that it’s a mean and lonely existence. 

I hate that. 

That, more than anything else, is why I want him to have this. This trip, this experience, this chance to see places he’s only dreamt of. Selfishly, I’m glad it’s me with him, but truly I’d be content to see him share this trip with anyone–even Wellbelove, if I’m going to be honest–just so he gets the chance to have something good for once. 

It’s disgustingly altruistic of me and I’m honestly appalled at my benevolence with regard to the thought of Wellbelove, but it’s true. 

I’d accept even that, if I knew it would make him happy. 

But, fortunately for me, it’s not Wellbelove accompanying him on this jaunt. 

It’s me. 

And I’ll be watching him sleep from across the room, the same way I have for years. 

Snow still looks doubtful. 

I try again. “Trust me, Snow. I’ve stayed in plenty of hotels with my family. We’ll be lucky to get two queen beds, rather than the usual doubles. It’ll be fine. I don’t think you need to fret about that as far as the list.”

I think he’s spelled it out adequately with what he’s already scrawled on the board. 

I’ve had about all the titillation I can handle tonight without completely losing my composure. I need to end this. “Listen, Snow, it all sounds fine. Everything you’ve got there. Selfies, hand-holding, the odd chaste kiss for the cameras.” My heart rate picks up as I list each item. “Don’t get in a strop about the rooms. It’ll be fine.” I let my shoulders slump into a semblance of weariness. “Now can we call it a night?” 

He gives me a searching look, one that would make me squirm if I weren’t so used to Snow’s scrutiny. “You’re sure you’re all right with this all, Baz? No second thoughts or reservations?” He rubs at the back of his neck again. 

That’s an easy one to answer. “No second thoughts at all, Snow. It sounds like a grand trip.” 

“Well, that’s all right then.” That radiant smile of his is back on display, warming me from across the room. 

There’s a shy sort of hush that comes after, as we shuffle through our nightly routines. I catch myself looking at the whiteboard one more time before Snow shuts off the lights. 

_selfies_

_hand holding_

_kissing_

I don’t know how I’m going to fall asleep tonight, with thoughts like that in my head. 

I pull my blanket up to my ear. Snow’s got the window open again but I’ve not got it in me to fuss. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. I don’t know. 

I’m almost reluctant to fall asleep, some part of me afraid that when I wake up in the morning this will all have been an elaborate dream, fading into mist as day breaks. 

I roll to my side and look across the room at Snow. He’s curled up on his side, like he always is, legs pulled up, hands tucked under his chin. 

There’s a bit of moonlight coming through the window. Just enough that I can see he’s still awake. There’s a small smile on his lips. The words that come next are unexpected. It’s not what we do. It’s not who we are. 

“Good night, Baz.” 

It’s an outstretched hand again, a verbal one this time. 

I meet it gladly. 

“Good night, Snow.”

I fall asleep to the achingly familiar sight of Simon Snow in the bed across from me. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song That Smiling Face by Camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> my deepest thanks to [krisrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix) and [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu/profile) and [fight-surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Fight_Surrender%22) for all the support and encouragement and beta reads!


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